Events in Sun and Shadows
by reading-is-in
Summary: In 2017, Adam visits a grieving Ben after the loss of his family and his beloved hero. He makes the same offer his dead half-brothers once made him: revenge, and a new life. AU.  Warnings: Major character death, confused adolescent feelings, angst.
1. Chapter 1

2017.

After his mother and Dean died, Ben sat in the warehouse for twenty-four hours. He supposed it was some sort of shock; it certainly wasn't normal, sitting surrounded by blood and the remains of their bodies. He was supposed to stay in the car, and he had: stayed to hear the sounds the demon made when it was killing them, watched as the warehouse lit up and heard the noise of earth cracking, and seen it stream away as a cloud of smoke. He'd sat there for a long time afterwards, hoping for no reason that they'd come out anyway. When the sun began to glow red-pink and gold above the cloud horizon, he went and sat amongst the ruins. Half-dried blood and splinters scratched his legs through the rips in his jeans. His mom hated those jeans, but Dean would stick up for him.

If the police came now, he thought, they would have to arrest him. Then at least he would know what to do. Someone would tell him where to go. He had never handled a gun – Dean had had his way on that matter. He never usually came on hunts either. It was only because the demon had broken in, late last night, defeating the traps and salt that his mother didn't want to leave him alone.

"Then I'll go alone," Dean had said, "You stay with Ben."  
"Like hell," his mom had said. "He's my son. If anyone is killing this thing that wants him, it'll be me."

But it hadn't been. It had killed her instead. Killed both of them, in ways he could not understand or begin to imagine until it came for him too, which right now seemed the only comphrensible thing to happen in his future.

Eventually Ben began to cry, and only stopped when it felt like there was no water left in him. Then he crawled, snivelling, towards the remains, extracted the gun still intact from what remained of his mother's hand, and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans. He didn't even know how to check the safety, but he didn't care either. Then he stumbled towards the sunlight.

***

He went home – to his house, he supposed. Was 17 old enough to inherit? He was very thirsty, so he drank some water from the tap in the kitchen, then went and lay on their bed. He breathed in his mother's scent, and felt like a lost child. He breathed in _his_ scent, and felt confused shameful angry love and hero worship. They were both still so _present_. Still suffused in the air, and one day soon it would be cold and empty and their room blank and scentless, never to be brought alive again.

Possibly he cried again, and slept. An indeterminate time later – long enough for him to have to use the bathroom a few times, drink water, and affirm that though days were probably passing, the thought of ingesting food made bile rise in his throat – there was a knock at the door. Ben raised his head. Then he lowered it again. So what? He had no business with anyone. Nowhere to go. Nothing.

A second knock. Harder this time, insistent. Then someone rang the doorbell.  
"Ben?" Someone called.  
Not knowing what else to do, Ben stood up and the world tilted weirdly – pressing a hand to the doorframe to steady himself, he meant to call, 'Coming', but nothing came out of his mouth except a rasp. The person was still ringing the doorbell. Ben opened the door.  
On the step was a young man, older than him, in his early twenties perhaps. He had wide, sombre blue eyes, a downturned mouth, and dark blonde hair cut raggedly in no particular style. He was dressed – like a hunter. Ben knew that by now. Jeans with lots of pockets, sturdy books, layers for concealing weapons and artefacts, and a rucksack.  
"I'm sorry," said the stranger. "I heard about what happened."  
"Who the fuck are you?" Ben asked, which was completely unlike him, but he felt that his personality had vanished in the warehouse however many days ago, and now he was merely a blank outline, the appearance of a person existing from moment to moment . He had no idea what would happen.

"My name is Adam," the stranger stepped cautiously forward, offering his hand. "I'm...Dean was my brother."  
"Dean's brother died seven years ago," Ben said flatly.  
"No I'm...another one. Half-brother, really. We shared the same father. I'm a hunter too."  
"Dean never mentioned you."  
"There was no reason for him to. He didn't want me to get into hunting and...we were never that close. I think Sam understood me a lot better. But, after he died..." Adam shrugged. "I guess we just never had a lot to say to each other. I had my life, he had his." Adam winced when he heard what he'd just said. "I'm sorry. Anyway, news travels fast in the hunting grapevine. I just wanted you to know...that I know. And that I exist, I guess. If you need anything." Adam half-smiled ruefully.  
Ben didn't say anything, just stood there holding the door open.  
"Are you okay? Is anyone here with you?"  
Ben said nothing.  
"Well...I'm gonna be sticking around for a while. That demon is still in the vicinity. I'll come check on you tomorrow, okay? Ben narrowed his eyes at the stranger and asked,  
"Why? Why are you doing this?"  
"Because...we're the only ones left, I guess." Adam shrugged. "They were great, but they're gone. I guess Dean felt like a father to you."  
Something roiled in Ben's stomach at that, and he thought he might vomit despite its emptiness. The intensity of feeling he'd had towards Dean...it wasn't that of a son. _'You were in love with him,'_ whispered his hard voice, relentless. _'You still are, and you always will be. He was the best thing in your life, everything you wanted. He treated you like his own kid, and that's how you repaid him. You're sick, and this is your punishment'. _  
"So I figure he'd want me to help you." Adam held his gaze for a moment, piercing. "Anything you want me to bring when I come tomorrow? Food?"  
"Do whatever you want," Ben told him, and closed the door in his face.


	2. Chapter 2

When Adam came back, he had pizza.

Ben had spent the intervening twenty-four hours wandering aimlessly around the house, slightly alarmed by the fact he could no longer focus properly, and decided that as he hadn't committed suicide yet, he apparently wasn't planning on it. That in mind, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and attempted to eat it. Three bites in he started crying and feeling sick again, like he couldn't think, and had to push the bowl away. He just didn't understand how this could happen. One minute he'd had his family. The next he was utterly alone. He felt helpless, unable to stop crying. What was he supposed to _do_?

"Eat this," Adam instructed, depositing the steaming, grease-marked cardboard box on the kitchen table, "Or, as much as you can."  
The smell of tomatoes, bread and cheese awakened Ben's stomach, which had evidently taken note of his passive decision to remain alive, and demanded.

"How are you holding up?" asked Adam softly, watching him eat and making him uncomfortable with his big compassionate eyes. Ben snorted around a mouthful of crust.  
"Yeah I figured," said Adam, and sat down, opposite Ben. "Listen," he said with hesitation, "This...might be too soon. But I don't know how long I'm going to be around here, and I have to ask."  
Ben froze.  
"Do you want to hunt? I mean, do you want revenge? Justice?"  
"Hunt," said Ben bitterly. "I can't even fire I gun. I was useless, I..." His throat started to fill up again; he looked down at the mess on his hands. He realized belatedly that he'd forgotten to use a plate, and how his mother would kill him. Except that she wouldn't, because.

"None of us did, once," said Adam. "I didn't, when ghouls killed my mother. Then I met the Winchesters, who were hunting the ghoul and..." he shrugged. "I knew what I had to do."  
"Dean said I was never to touch a gun. He didn't want me to." Ben sounded and felt like a child.  
"Pretty much said the same thing to me," Adam grinned, sadly. "Sam understood me better though. We...kept in touch." Something passed across Adam's face then: inexplicable, brief, and then shuttered. "He gave me the address of this old guy...Bobby Singer. Runs a scrap yard. But really he's a hunter, and he trained me. He'd train you too, if you wanted. I could help."

Ben paused and considered the absurdity of it. Him, a hunter. Hunters were heroes, extraordinary individuals drawn to a higher calling. They were impervious to pain, tiredness, decisive under pressure, self-sacrificial in the extreme. God, he had loved him. He may be seventeen, but he knew what he'd felt, his hopeless love. Ben lacked hand-eye co-ordination, was afraid of deep water, and had cried like a little girl two years ago when he'd broken his ankle falling out of a tree in attempt to retrieve a Frisbee. He still remembered hearing the snap, and the mind-blanking pain that had shot up his leg all the way through his body, and how he had vomited, indefensibly, and mostly over his personal hero, who had reached him before his mother had. He shuddered at the memory. He raised his eyes to Adam again.

"Not many people are born to this life," Adam shrugged, watching him closely, "my brothers were exceptional. No-one becomes a hunter by accident. We're just people. But – with a mission." He shrugged, perhaps aware of the awkwardness of that statement. "I feel like I ought to give you the opportunity, as it was given to me."  
And – why not? Well, of course there were a million reasons why not, but the real question was, what else was he going to do?  
"Aren't you...hunting something though? I mean, aren't you busy?"  
"I lost it," Adam winced. "I'm sorry – it's long gone. There are other things I could look into, but...nothing that can't wait. I can take you to Bobby's first, if it's what you want. Even stick around for a while."  
"Okay," Ben heard himself say then, for he's evidently gone insane. He pushed the remnants of his pizza away. "Then let's go."  
"Well – hang on," said Adam. "You need to pack some things. Bobby lives in South Dakota – it's temperate right now, but it's cooling down for a harsh winter. Cold weather clothes. Do you have boots?"  
"Hiking boots..."  
"That'll do for now. Bring shirts that'll take some wear. Dark colours. A strong backpack. I'm going the scope out the house for weapons."

Something in Ben recoiled at that – that this near-stranger should touch the things that had been Dean's. But someone had to, he supposed. Dean hadn't wanted Ben to become a hunter – but Dean was dead, protecting him, and in some twisted way, if anyone was getting the weapons, he was glad it was someone Winchester blood in his veins. Only half, impure, but something.  
"We're not them, and we never will be." Had Adam a touch of the psychic ability, the way he was reading Ben's mind? "They were masters. But , they're dead and gone. We are alive now. All we can do is become our best, and try not to dishonour their memory." He regarded Ben with those great sad eyes, like the glass-painted saints in the windows of churches in England. "Go and pack."

With a shake of his head, and short harsh laugh at the absurdity of himself, Ben got up abruptly and took the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

* * *

Adam drove a 2004 Ford Explorer in dark green; nondescript, a little faded, sturdy-looking.  
"Not the easiest parker, but good on most terrain," said Adam blandly, patting the dashboard as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses with his other hand. "Comfortable?" he had been making small talk ever since Ben had re-emerged from his (ex-) bedroom, carrying his rucksack.  
"Yeah," said Ben, staring out the windscreen. Adam glanced at the house, as though wondering if Ben would regret not saying a proper goodbye to it. Ben couldn't have cared less. Everything that made the house home was gone; it was only a shell now. Instead, he studied his odd messenger of fate, inscrutable now, calm, and apparently light-hearted.  
"Go to sleep if you can," advised Adam as he started the engine : "We've got a long road ahead."


	3. Chapter 3

The drive to South Dakota took a little more than a day, and to Ben's surprise he slept for much of it. He was disturbed, but not awoken by, disjointed nightmares: images from the warehouse mostly, darkness, smoke and blood. Interspersed with flashes of earlier years – and of course Dean's voice, obscured and with no words Ben could make out, just that accent and low gravelly quality which been the secret hot shame of Ben's adolescence. When he did wake, the guilt was a physical weight, almost as bad as the ever-present pit of loss. Dean was dead, and Ben was sick enough that he was still betraying him.

Ben wasn't queer or anything. There was one guy at school who was like that- hung around with the girls, used some fruity shampoo and liked chick flicks and clothes and all that shit. Ben wasn't like that, not that he thought there was anything wrong with it. He just – wasn't. Everybody had one secret, one thing about themselves that just didn't fit with the rest of it. And now Dean was dead, and the secret and hopeless love would die with him. One day. And when it was gone, he'd have nothing.

"Stop for food?" Adam asked, slanting a glance across at Ben over the rim of his shades.

"You think about food a lot." Ben's voice sounded raspy and disused.

"Hell, I'm a growing boy."

"How old are you, anyway?"

"Well okay, I'm twenty-three." Adam grinned. "Guess I've pretty much stopped growing. But I live a very active lifestyle. How old are you?"

"Seventeen." It was possible Adam winced slightly, but the shades made it hard to tell. They pulled up at a greasy diner. There was no way Mom would've let him eat junk food two days in a row, but Ben guessed he could eat it every day now for the rest of his life. The thought made him sick with grief.

Adam got a cheeseburger with extra pickles, fries and a side of coleslaw. Ben got the soup of the day, which was calling itself minestrone – a watery orange-pink concoction with small rings of pale slippery pasta, chunks of sweetcorn and some unknown pieces.

"You ought to start eating more," Adam observed. "You're getting too skinny."

It wasn't a comment anybody would make to Ben Braeden. Mom used to say he was like a bottomless pit. It made him feel like that guy was gone, dead in the warehouse with his family, and a stranger had invaded his skin instead.

"'Besides," Adam went on, "You need to build your strength up if you're gonna hunt." He looked clinically at Ben's upper body, and Ben resisted the urge to cross his arms across his chest. Adam was lean, wiry and mature-looking, muscles defined beneath the sleeves of his plaid shirt. Looked like he did weights or something. Ben looked like what he was: an adolescent, and one whose best sport was pool.

"So you uh…where are you from?" Ben asked Adam a couple hours later. They were back on the Interstate - flat grass right and left and a dull grey cloud cover. It was dawning upon Ben that he knew almost nothing about the guy except for his claim to be Dean's half-brother. Adam had more or less rescued him, despite Ben's initial hostility. It seemed like the least Ben could do was start making a little small talk.

"Windom, Minnesota. My Mom was a nurse there. My dad, you know about."

"Was a nurse?"

"She was killed be ghouls when I was sixteen," Adam kept his eyes on the road.

"Oh." The thing to say would be, 'I'm sorry,' but the truth was, he wasn't.

"That's how I became a hunter," Adam said. "So you know…a lot of us are kind of in the same boat, Ben. No-one does this for a hobby, you get me?"

"Yeah," said Ben quietly.

"But we survive it," Adam went on. "You will."

Ben didn't know how to answer.

It was close to midnight when the pickup chugged quietly under the wireframe entrance to Singer's Auto Salvage. Whole cars, parts and skeletons hulked weirdly in the moonlight, stacked three or four high in places. The air smelled like dust and motor oil.

"Will he be up?" Ben asked.

"Probably. Bobby's usually researching something at this hour…or drinking."

Ben shifted. He had a little experience with drinking. In the first couple of years after Sam Winchester died, Dean used to drink late at night, alone, and sometimes to his shame and horror Ben would hear him crying. In the morning he would act extra cheerful in front of Ben, offer to play baseball after school, but his eyes were red and Mom would watch him uneasily, unsure, until one day he heard Mom telling Dean he could no longer drink in the house. He had never been scary or threatening. Just – so terribly sad.

"Relax. Bobby knows how to hold his booze. He's had a lot of practice," Adam chuckled, hopped out of the car and Ben followed him up to the wooden porch of a large but ramshackle property. Adam rapped on the door with the knocker and called,

"It's me!"

There was a thump from inside, then a long pause. Adam looked unperturbed. A series of sharp thuds started up, then drew closer at regular intervals. Three metallic chinks, sliding noises, then the door opened a little and a part of a grizzled face appeared above a series of chains and bolts. One watery blue eye regarded Adam, then slid across to Ben.

"That's him," Adam affirmed.

"Should hope so." The door closed, then opened properly. In the entrance stood an old man, leaning heavily on a sturdy wooden cane. His face was lined, his beard and scruffy hair mostly grey and white. He was tall, even hunched over, and gave the impression he'd once been a big man, not used to looking up at people. Even now, there was something about him – an impression of slow strength. Adam entered the house immediately, slipping past Bobby and into the hall as though he lived there himself.

"Ben Braedon," Bobby Singer said.

"Yes sir," Ben said shakily. Then, to his shock, he pulled into a one-armed embrace by the old man. He froze for a second, then, depleted, accepted the gesture.

"You'll always be welcome in this house son," Bobby Singer said. Adam held Ben's gaze intently over the old man's shoulder.

TBC.

A/N: I did take a slight liberty with Ben and Adam's ages. According to SuperWiki, Ben would be 18 and Adam 27 in the Autumn of 2017, but I needed them a little younger for the dynamic I'm aiming for. I also find it quite amusing that the Wiki lists Ben's 'Occupation' as 'Kid' XD.


	4. Chapter 4

Eight days after his family died, Ben had a wet dream.

It was hardly a novel experience – he was a late-teenage boy, after all. Waking up in this sort of state had been par for the course for the past four years or so. Some of the guys at his old school had liked to compare their dreams, spinning contests to see who could come up with the wildest scenarios, the maximum output in the morning, or exchanging risk-tales of near-discovery by parents. Ben used to bluff his way through the contests, say he dreamed about Sarah Michelle Geller or the current head cheerleader or Miss Rodriguez the new math teacher. All lies. The dreams he could remember were only ever about one person.

It wasn't that he didn't like girls. He had dated three, and gotten to third base with one of them. He had never gone all the way yet. All the other guys had done it already, to hear them tell it – Jake Cunningham said he'd done it when he was fifteen with an eighteen-year-old. In Ben's opinion, that was actually kind of gross, but probably better than what he was: a virgin obsessed with his Mom's boyfriend. Ben thought he was going to do it with Jennifer Ellison-Michael. They had come really close. But then at the last minute, she had told him that she was waiting for someone who really loved her and wanted her. Then she'd broken up with him.

Ben awoke with a start, feeling the cooling wetness between skin and hard mattress. The shame of it almost made him weep now, in the sharp clear morning. He stumbled up, grabbed the sheets off the bed and bundled them into a ball hurriedly, praying desperately to a God he didn't believe that he hadn't stained the mattress. Furious with himself – with his body and his sick mind – he stuffed the sheets into a corner in lieu of a washing basket and took his shower punishingly cold. His tears mingled with the water on his cheeks, but by the time he finished and dried off, they had stopped again. He went and fetched his bedsheets, held them under the spray, then spread them over the ancient radiator in his bedroom, which creaked to life twice a day for a couple of hours in the early morning and evening.

"You're up early," said Bobby when Ben emerged in the dining room. He'd insisted that Ben call him Bobby – "no sense standin' on ceremony in this line of work, boy". A blush crept up the back of Ben's neck. Did he know? _'Of course not! Don't be stupid. And stop thinking like that, moron, before you give yourself away.'_

"Adam taking you training?"

Bobby slid a plate of pancakes in front of him.

"Adam's back?"

"Got back last night. Thought you you'da seen him."

"No I…I feel asleep early."

"Well, my guess is he'll be sleepin in a while yet. Give me time to show you some important things."

So. This was it. Adam had disappeared the day after dropping Ben at the house – some kind of poltergeist emergency – and Bobby had mostly left Ben to himself, giving him some space he supposed. Ben was sick of space. He needed action. Needed to be doing something, to try and feel like a human again.

"How're you doing, kid?" Bobby was watching him from the corner of his eye, though he was facing the stove still.

"Alright, I guess," Ben shrugged, then remembered the line that was meant for such situations: "As well as can be expected."

"Alright then. Finish up, and come into the study with me."

By the time Adam did emerge, three and a half hours later, Ben kind of felt like an idiot in school – hunters, for all the bravado that some of them put on, were apparently not short on brain cells. The nightmare of what existed in darkness seemed to go on forever- and for every creature there were different rules, different patterns, different ways to track and kill. Bobby's collection of lore books spanned fourteen languages: he might dress like a redneck, as Mom would've put it, but Ben had never yet met a redneck fluent in both Classical and Modern Standard Arabic.

"Whaddaya mean you don't know, I just told you didn't I?" Bobby glared at Ben from behind the desk: "Goddamit boy, you listen worse than-" and stopped himself, as their eyes met in appalled shock, realizing all over again. _'He knew him,'_, Ben thought in wonder,_ 'when he was just a kid. Younger than me.'_ The notion that Dean could've ever been a child was ludicrous. Bobby cleared his throat, shuffled papers.

"Give the brain a break maybe," Adam suggested from the doorway. "I could take Ben outside, start some target practice. You got something simple he can use here Bobby?"

"Alright, alright. Just don't come cryin' to me when a djinn is stringin' you up by the ceiling and lead bullets are about as deadly as paperclips." Bobby shuffled to a shelf and selected a box, which he opened to reveal a simple handgun. "You be careful now," he told Ben as he prepared to load it. "Every one of the Winchesters practiced with this. Sam, Dean and Adam here-"

"No," said Ben quickly.

"What?"

"I can't." The room was starting to spin. Ben felt his breathing speed up – faster, out of control. He couldn't touch that gun – it was sacred. His vision narrowed until it was all he could see, the dull gleaming metal in the wooden box. He imagined Dean holding it, aiming it, perfect – and it seemed like he couldn't get enough air to last even another minute. The gun must stay safe and untouched, a memorial –

"Ben!" Adam was gripping him by the shoulders. Ben realized he was on his knees. "Breathe!"

Ben breathed.

Adam's hands remained firm on his shoulders, slim fingers surprisingly strong. Their grip in his muscles hurt a little, and he focused on that.

Gradually, the room settled again. Ben could see. Bobby was peering down at him, looking like he wanted to kneel, but it obviously wasn't easy with his bad leg. Adam squeezed a little and released him. Ben forced himself to his feet.

"I know it's hard," Bobby said gently. "But I think he would want you to have it."

If only he knew. How perverse Ben was – how only that night, he had sullied Dean's shining memory.

"I don't deserve it," Ben said shakily.

Bobby placed the handle of the gun in his palm. It felt cool firm, and with a sense of helplessness, Ben's fingers closed over it.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

The best thing about the next weeks was the hard physical work. If you pushed your body hard enough, Ben was realizing, you didn't have to think – at least not whilst you were using it. Adam expressed admiration at the short time in which Ben mastered knife-throwing, bow-hunting and the rifle – the pistol, of course, was harder, because every time he touched it he could feel himself sully the cool metal at the same time the memories flowed out of it. He had to force that from his mind, and it took a minute, and then he had to refocus.

He kept waiting for the moment when it would kick in – the traditional inspiration of a weapon handed down through the generations – but so far it persisted only in reminding him of his unworthiness. Adam watched with a look of nostalgia, and Ben considered asking him if he wanted it back – he would surely make better use of it, after all.

Adam was a professional. Ben realised that quickly. He didn't have Dean's grace, the controlled and effortless power Ben had witnessed on the few occasions he had seen his hero on the battlefield – but his movements were sure and competent, hands steady as he held his weapons, calm proficiency. There would certainly be worse people to have on your side in a tight corner. At first they stuck to the scrap yard – then Adam started to take him on minor excursions, like to the nearby forests to teach him the basics of tracking.

"Used to be a colony of shug monkeys living in these woods," Adam said blithely: "Unpleasant. Think of a monkey crossed with a rabid dog, with the ability to appear and disappear at whim."

The hair on the back of Ben's neck stood up.

"As far as I'm aware, they're all dead," Adam went on. "Just…keep an eye open."

Ben kept both.

Nights with Bobby were harder. Then, Ben had to engage his mind, and so was more vulnerable to memory. After a crash course in the basic catalogue of supernatural creatures – a misnomer, Bobby informed him, because of course nothing that existed was contrary to nature, merely nature as civilians understood it – they began an intense study of the two _Keys _called _of Solomon. _They really bore no relation to the legendary king – like most of the good demonologies, Bobby said, they were mid-to-late Renaissance European.

"Those old boys might have made up their authorities, but they knew their demons alright," Bobby told him with satisfaction. Night after night, he had Ben trace a devil's trap in chalk on the floor of the library – at first Ben was slow and painstaking, looking up at the diagram every other line, then gradually faster with less studying, until eventually he drew it from memory.

"Hm," said Bobby. "Well, that's progress."

Ben blew his hair off his forehead in frustration – it was getting long. He dusted the chalk from hits hands.

"By my count," Bobby went on, "a lesser demon could only have killed you seven to eight times before you finished that sucker. That's down from twenty-nine when we started."

By silent consent they kept his days full. The more he could wear himself out, the less likely he was to dream, and especially to dream about Dean. The worst times were when Adam was off hunting, which he'd limited to emergencies for the moment. There was only so much Ben could do without a sparring partner, and he found himself wandering, anxious, amid the empty hulks of cars and wishing he weren't alone. Bobby tended to fall asleep in the afternoon, and Ben couldn't be in the inside the house – he felt as though he were going to panic, every scuffed square of carpet or scarred wooden surface a possible fantasy memory, the inch-thick layer of dust everywhere far too much like a tomb. He didn't really know how to clean, or he might have turned to it out of desperation. So he wandered and did what errands he could and waited for Adam to come home.

_'What if Adam dies too?'_

The thought occurred to him out of the blue, like a bolt of lightning. He was standing at a checkout at the mini-mart, buying beer, bread, pork mince and the local newspaper – the girl behind the counter was smiling at him as she scanned the items, tilting her head so the strip-light would catch her glittery eye-shadow.

"Hey, you okay?" she asked anxiously now, because he'd completely frozen.

"Uh – yeah!" Ben exclaimed, breathing out forcibly. Adam wasn't dead. He'd be back tonight.

"Umm….are you sure, cos you look really freaked out."

"No. Yes! I mean, I'm fine." Ben forced a smile. "Thanks," as she bagged the items, twirling the bag handles neatly to close it.

"No problem," the girl smiled. "You Mr. Singer's other grandson or something?"

"Grandson?"

"I mean I've just seen you with Adam, around…" she shrugged. "Thought you were brothers or whatever. You don't look nothing like him though," she continued to fiddle with the bag and looked down. He could see her smiling.

"No I'm just – Adam's friend. Phil. Phil – Rudd."

"Like the drummer from AC/DC?"

"Well, my parents are major fans…so being Rudds, you know." It was amazing how easily lying came. It didn't feel at all like betrayal. It had nothing to do with his Mom, or his old life - he was spinning it out of the air.

"Awesome. I'm Jane, can you believe it? As in Plain Jane?" she made a face.

"You're not plain," Ben said before he could think about it. Because she wasn't. She was – pretty – in an all-American kind of way. Natural blonde hair with a thin pink ribbon woven into one braid at the front, the rest cut to frame a petite, heart-shaped face…a few pimples over the bridge of her nose, blue eyes. Slim, capable hands.

She looked ready to say something else, but another customer was waiting – a woman with a couple of wriggling kids, flustered and laden with shopping. "See you round," Jane said hopefully as Ben gathered up his shopping.

"See you," he said, and made an exit.

"Hey there _Phil," _said Adam, as he killed the engine. It wasn't that Ben had been waiting for him or anything like that. It just happened that he couldn't sleep that night, so he was out taking a look at the remains of an 87 Buick Riviera. Shame they hadn't taken better care of her – her great frame looked almost noble in decay, like the skeleton of a whale in the moonlight. His ears had picked out the Ford's engine – not that he was listening for it – and he seemed to relax for the first time all day when Adam pulled up and parked.

"Oh, you've been to the mini-mart."

"I'm celebrating." Adam showed him a bag with a better class of beer than Bobby usually stocked. "Exorcised a demon. Not your demon," he added hastily. "I thought you'd – I'm saving that."

"Thanks," said Ben, for some reason.

Later, they sat up on the roof and shared the crate of tinted brown bottles. The beer was smooth and just a little spicy without being bitter. Ben realised he was enjoying the taste – the first he'd enjoyed since the warehouse, and closed his eyes to appreciate it a moment.

"So Jane likes you," Adam told him. He was looking at the moon, his legs pulled up, one arm wrapped around them against the chill and the other holding his third beer. His expression was peaceful, a little amused – the thin edge of intoxication.

"She told you that?" Ben was feeling the affects. He hadn't drunk in a while and had been too nervous for dinner earlier.

"Uh huh. She sends her number." Adam patted his pockets, then, "damn. I lost it. Never mind. I'm sure she'll give it to you next time."

"I don't know if I want it," Ben said, because suddenly, in his slight drunkenness and the light of the moon and the relief of not being alone in the world, what he wanted was to kiss Adam. The pale light caught Adam's big, expressive eyes (the same eyes that their common father had given to Dean, but Dean was dead), and his lips were curved up slightly, glistening with moisture from the rim of the bottle.

"I understand," Adam nodded, his voice soft. "It's not easy, in this life. Hard to have attachments. There are only a few of us, and we have each other for as long as we live…but not civilians. The moment we become attached we put them in danger." And he smiled, infinitely tender and sad: "It was one of the first things Sam told me."

And with that, like a bolt of lightning so obvious Ben couldn't believe he'd not seen it – he knew. He knew that he wasn't the only one who had nursed an impossible love.

He sat back, shocked, feeling cold. The beer bottle was like ice in his fingers. Adam stood and offered him a hand to help him to get to his feet, and his fingers were warming, strong and living.

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

"Shapeshifter in Kingswood," said Adam: "You up for it?"

"You want me to come on a real hunt?" Ben looked up startled from his book of revenants.

"That's what we've been training you for, isn't it?" Adam grinned. "I'm 80% sure it's a shapeshifter, anyway." He spread a map of the area over the coffee table. "A kid went psycho and pulled a gun at the high school last week. First I figured it was either a regular human killing, or a vengeful spirit…no shortage of them in high schools, you understand."  
Ben didn't, really. He hadn't been a jock , but he hadn't been bullied or an outcast either. High school. had been okay for him, except for the never-ending fear that someone would find out his secret.

"Only, according to the local paper, the kid swears blind he was playing hooky that day. Docs are saying multiple personality disorder. I considered possession, false memories…but then, the receptionist at the golf club flips out yesterday, stalks a customer on his way home and beats him to death with a golf club. The dead dude, by all accounts, should've been able to defend himself – we're talking a hundred pound, 5 foot woman versus a guy who teaches kickboxing at the Y. And get this – the second victim is the uncle of the kid the shifter shot at the high school. Receptionist's alibi is she went straight home from work – which is so mundane as to probably be true – and finally, this morning, police arrest a care worker about to top an old girl at the retirement centre. Said care worker supposedly not working that day. A little too much duplication to be a co-incidence."

"So – we scope the sewers?" Ben stood up, closing the book, feeling the stretch of his newly developed muscles. He'd surprised himself, yesterday, catching sight of his rapidly-developing body in the chipped bathroom mirror when he got out of the shower. He had bruises on top of bruises – but more muscle than he'd ever had in his life. A thinner face. He'd actually stopped and stared for a minute. Wished Dean could see him like this.

"We scope the sewers," Adam confirmed. "You can kill a shapeshifter with silver to the heart in any form – bullets being the most convenient. I only got six left, so aim carefully. And we'll each take a silver knife as backup." Ben waited for him to say,_ 'keep behind me',_ or _'do what I say, no questions', _but Adam said nothing else, just reached for a box on the top shelf of the study and started to change the bullets in his usual weapon. He seemed calm, cheerful, and whatever Ben had felt or thought he'd felt the night before seemed to have never touched him. Probably just some sick combination of loneliness, grief and the being seventeen without having jerked off for the previous seventy-two hours. Ben shoved it viciously from his mind. It wasn't like he was even gay or anything.  
They left at eight, Bobby clapping Ben on the shoulder with a gruff admonition to be careful. "Dean would be damn proud of you," he informed him.

"Dean didn't even want me to fire a gun," Ben reminded him, and Bobby grimaced. Ben realized he'd said Dean's name out loud, and the world hadn't crumbled. His breath caught a little though.

"Well, he would understand now," Bobby asserted. "And he'd be proud."

Adam, watching closely, said,

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" mildly.

"Yeah," said Ben, his mind suddenly made up. "Let's do it."

"Have you hunted a shifter before?" Ben asked Adam, as the Ford rumbled quietly through the city streets.

"Twice," said Adam. "One I caught, one caught me."

"Oh."

"Nobody's perfect."

They used the empty car park of a closed department store, kept their weapons hidden as Ben stood lookout and Adam levered the nearest drain cover open. The smell was intense and immediate. Ben gagged.

"Yeah, you might wanna-…," Adam gestured belatedly to the way he was covering his mouth with his sleeve. One-handed, he grasped the metal ladder and shimmied down the steps, landing with a wet thud in the darkness below. Ben could just make out his head and shoulders before he followed suit. Once down, they clicked on their flashlights and Ben slid the drain cover back into place, surprised by how easily it yielded to his increased strength. Their flashlights roved over the dank, dripping walls. Now that they were closed in, the smell of rot and human waste was even more overpowering, and Ben did his best to breathe through his mouth until he could adjust to it.

"So – you could go left and I could go right – or – no, it's your first time, so I guess we should stay together. I mean, unless you want to split up. Can you tell I've never trained anyone before?" Adam's grin flashed in the darkness, torchlight catching his eyes and teeth.

"Let's stick together," said Ben.

"Alright. So we're looking for discarded remains, clothes, especially skin, hair and nails. Listen out for any sounds."  
They started moving, and by silent consent, Adam moved his flashlight over the left-hand side of the curved tunnel, Ben over the left. A murky stream of dubious substance trickled and squished beneath their boots, smell rising fresh every time they turned it over. It felt like a long time passed – but according to the blinking numbers on Ben's luminous wristwatch, it was less than twenty minutes. "We're under the school," Adam observed quietly, apparently reading the markings from a metal hub in the wall, and then –

"Ho-oly shit," Ben's flashlight fell on a pile of something, and the exclamation fell from his lips before he could bite it back. It was skin – looked like human skin – festering and fly-covered. Streaked bloody and torn in unnatural ways, from the scalp to the soles of the feet. Interspersed with the shreds of a denim skirt, socks, a jumper – a ripped pair of sneakers lay next to the pile, obscenely white and innocuous.

"Alright," said Adam quietly, "We found its first hunting ground."

A slip-slither of something behind them – the slap of a footfall in moisture.

"Make that its current hunting ground," Adam said, cocked his gun, and turned around.

TBC

A/N: Apologies, but there probably won't be another update until next weekend. I have a semi-big uni deadline coming up. If other stuff goes quicker than expected, I will update Wednesday as usual, but it's looking doubtful right now. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, commented or sent a message about this, I really do appreciate it.


	7. Chapter 7

he shapeshifter currently held the form of a middle-aged man .Calm, grey haired, with a benevolent smile, he wore the white and blue uniform of the local care home. His badge declared, _STAFF: Harold Winterman._ But the skin was beginning to wear and peel: cheeks, forehead, the tips of the fingers and feet torn, the glint of something unnatural and shiny revealed at the extremities.

"Missed a chance with this one," the shifter said ruefully, making a self-referential gesture. "I was going for the mother. Oh hell, she's ancient, she'll die anyway before the year is out."

"And here come the revelations," Adam observed dryly. He changed position as the shifter started to circle, keeping his gun locked on the target. "It's always the post-humans who just _have_ to tell you their story. 'Western man has become a confessing animal'."

"Foucault, _History of Sexuality_," said the shifter calmly. "I read."

"Yeah, you're just like the rest of us," Adam sneered: "Lonely and misunderstood."

Dean would've shot the thing three times by now. What was Adam waiting for? Still, Ben found himself mesmerized by the rhythmic exchange. The shifter was edging around the walls of the sewer as it spoke – closer to Ben, and the exit. Ben raised his own gun, barring its path. The shifter winced a little.

"It wasn't so long ago that I was," said the thing mildly. A shudder carried through it, the remains of the skin, the otherness underneath flexing and stretching out. "Ten years, two months, eleven days. That was her first affair with my brother. I'm not even sure Cat was my kid, you know? Never plucked up the courage to demand paternity tests."

"So you killed the innocent child instead," Adam observed. "Heroic."

"Oh come on. Where's your solidarity? When the woman does it, it's proto-feminism. Haven't you read the _Medea?_ Not quite as smart as you think you are. When a man does, it's a death sentence."

"You're not alive," Adam told him. "You've been dead inside for a long time."

"I wouldn't be so sure." A last, desperate attempt, then – the shifter lunged for Adam. He fired immediately, but the shifter was in motion, and the silver bullets caught its shoulder instead of the chest and heart. It shrieked, but kept going – Ben wanted to fire but he didn't have the aim, and the thing was moving too fast, he could hit Adam. Instead he drew his knife and ran towards it – the shifter saw him coming, jerked in his direction, and then it was coming and slamming him backwards and the last thing he heard was the sound of a gunshot and the shifter's unearthly scream – unless it was his skull connecting with the tunnel and his own screech of agony as the world went black.

Having never been concussed before, Ben was surprised that the first thing he registered wasn't pain at all. It was, conversely, the urge to vomit, bringing a flood of humiliating and equally painful memories as he turned his head to the side – okay, there was pain – and expelled the remnants of his dinner.

"Okay," said Adam's voice sympathetically, and Ben felt his hand on his back. "Better out than in…"

Ben sat back, after an unpleasant few minutes, which caused his head to throb again – Adam came around to squat in front of him and checked his eyes, before saying,

"It's not bad. Your pupils are equal and reacting properly. You'll be okay. Just have a hell of a headache for couple of days – we've got some good pills in the house." His voice was quiet, warm,sympathetic, but then with confusion: "What were you doing?"

"Helping," Ben croaked.

Adam winced. "Yeah I guess it looked…I had it under control. Sorry. I should have explained more first – I needed a clear shot at the heart. You saw how it was turning right side on as it talked to us?"

"Oh." Ben felt sluggish. He sort of did remember that, come to think of it.

"I had to get it to turn and face me."

"But you missed."

"I had an aim that would've killed it when you rushed in," said Adam mildly. "But – thanks - for the effort. I can see what it must of looked like from your perspective."

"It's dead?" Ben suddenly remembered that would be a good thing to ask. It was hard to think around the ringing in his ears.

"It's dead," Adam confirmed, moving aside to let Ben see the mess on the sewer floor. "Hunt accomplished. You think you can stand, if I help you?" Which Ben could, though it wasn't a good experience,and really nothing else was much fun until he was lying on Bobby's couch, dosed with Percocet and after having washed his mouth with mouthwash and had his eyes checked a few more times, finally allowed to sleep.

Waking up in the late morning, Ben felt surprisingly better. A little sick, and not apt to make sudden movements, but no longer as though he was being repeatedly hit over the head with a heavy object.

"You have a hard skull," observed Adam quietly, from where Ben realized he was sitting in the big chair opposite the couch. The TV was on, but muted. "How do you feel?"

"Stupid," Ben admitted. The true embarrassment of his first hunt was finally sinking in.

"Don't. The thing's dead, we're not. That's a win in my book," Adam shrugged. Gratitude flooded Ben suddenly, so intense as to feel like something else, something like affection. Adam was so – calm.

He knew what to do. Sometimes he almost made Ben feel like things would be alright. Alright enough.

"D'you want some water?" Adam said.

"Yes please." Adam got it and handed it to Ben, then squatted down at the side of the couch as he watched him carefully drink it.

"I don't think we should imagine," Adam said softly, "That they never got it wrong. That they were never afraid or messed up. No doubt, they were amazing. We'll never be like that. But they must have

had times when they were scared or hurt or just didn't want to do it anymore."He looked at the TV the whole time he spoke, his expression mild, tone light. And before he could help himself, before he knew what he meant, Ben blurted out,

"I'm glad you're here. I mean, I'm glad I'm here. That you came to get me. I'm glad we're together and not alone."

Adam paused, then said,

"I'm glad we're together too," and his hand brushed Ben's fingers very lightly as he stood to retrieve the glass. And then Ben did something incredibly stupid, because he was alive and Adam was alive and they hunted together and at least he wasn't alone. Though the movement made his head spike with pain he leaned forward a little and kissed Adam, closed-mouthed and firm, on the lips. It Adam didn't resist, or kiss back. His lips were soft and dry, but his teeth hard and underneath them. It was a kiss of force, of solidarity.  
Ben sat back, breathless. Adam regarded him. He didn't seem surprised, angry , pleased or excited. If anything, he seemed sad, eyes compassionate. He ran his hand lightly over Ben's forehead, brushing hair away.

"Go to back to sleep," he said, and left.

TBC.


	8. Chapter 8

"I want to apologize," Ben said. Morning of the third day after his first disastrous hunt, and he was feeling pretty much what passed for normal these days. The mortification of his little insanity aside.

"For what?" Adam looked up from the newspaper, which he was scanning at the big kitchen table. A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth. So he was going to make him say it:

"For…kissing you…I shouldn't have done that." Ben studied the cracks in the porcelain sink, feeling the blush of embarrassment and irritation in his cheeks.

"That's okay," said Adam inscrutably, and went back to the paper.

"No I mean….I'm not gay." Ben had to make him understand. He pulled a chair out for himself and sat down opposite Adam: "I don't _like_ guys."

"You were in love with Dean, and forty-eight hours ago you kissed me on the lips." Adam turned his attention to Ben properly, looking vaguely amused. "I think it's pretty safe to say you like guys."

"But I like girls."

"And guess what? It's okay to like both. I happen to think its okay to be gay, too." He raised his coffee mug in a mock-toast, and drained it.

"Are you –" Ben blinked. "So – you're _gay?_"

"Yes, I am."

"But – but I mean you're…" Ben was flustered. He didn't know what to think. Adam didn't _look_ gay. He didn't _act_ it. Not that Ben knew a whole lot of gay guys, or whatever. But – you could tell, right? Couldn't you? "What did your Mom say?"

"She said that all she cared about was that I was happy. Why, what do imagine she said?"

"I don't know…" Ben tried to imagine telling his own mother that he was gay. He couldn't. It had just never… he had loved Dean, but that was an aberration in any case. He'd had three different girlfriends! He didn't think his Mom had been homophobic…the topic had just - never come up. Then he tried to imagine himself saying, 'Mom, I'm in love with your boyfriend,' and gritted his teeth involuntarily, feeling his face grown even redder.

"I don't know what I am," Ben groaned, and slid his head into his hands, resting his elbows on the tabletop.

"Well, you are a teenager," Adam said wryly. "And you're also grieving. It's perfectly understandable that you feel all over the place."

"I shouldn't have just kissed you like that. But - I like you," Ben said firmly, looking Adam in the eyes. "I shouldn't have kissed you because - it wasn't fair – you weren't expecting it - but I do like you. You saved me – and you keep on saving me – and – and I don't know what that means, but honestly I don't know if I even care anymore. My Mom's – dead – the one person I loved -…" he could feel himself getting choked up again.

"It's alright," said Adam quietly, but Ben forced back the tears fiercely.

"Do you like me?" he asked with profound recklessness.

"Well, I haven't exactly known you for that long," said Adam. "But – so far, I think you are kind, brave, trustworthy and capable of great feeling…and under different circumstances, I would certainly find you attractive. But – I also think you're not in any state to be rushing into a relationship, leave alone your first relationship with a guy. Besides which, I'm six years older than you."

"Five and a half," Ben objected. "You said you were twenty-three at the end of September – well, I'm eighteen in May."

"Five and a half then," Adam conceded. "It's still a big difference."  
Ben dropped his gaze to his hands, suddenly deflated, using his right thumb to pick dirt from the nail of his left index finger. God, he was such a pathetic case. Then something occurred to him:

"So like- have you had - boyfriends?" It felt like such a weird thing to ask another guy.

"That…depends on what you count as a relationship. I have certainly had _a_ boyfriend," Adam smiled, remembering: "It…didn't work out. Hunting isn't exactly conductive to long-term attachments."

Whilst he was being reckless: "Was it…?"

"Sam? No. There are laws against that sort of thing."

"Well no offense," Ben laughed bitterly, "But what exactly about our lives _is_ socially  
acceptable?"

"True," Adam acknowledged with a slight dip of his head. "But this was different. I loved him – wanted him - hopelessly, absurdly, to a degree I knew wasn't rational for the amount of time I actually saw him. It's not that uncommon, actually, for siblings or half-siblings brought up apart. Google 'genetic sexual attraction' sometime. Anyway. I have no doubt that he didn't feel the same about me. He liked me – never having had a little brother, I guess it was kind of a novelty for him. I have no idea what his views on incest were. In any case, I just took everything I felt and channeled it into become a better hunter. I told myself I was doing it for him, making myself the best I could be for him." Adam shrugged. "I always knew it was hopeless. And he died and – in the best way possible, as I always knew he would - I knew he would resist in the end. The world is a darker place without him – without both of them – but thanks to them it's still here, so I suppose they'd want us to get by in it as best we can, don't you?"

And Ben was seized with the fierce desire to kiss him again, and he blurted: "We can get by better together, can't we? I don't want to be alone."

"You're not alone," Adam got up and returned the mug he'd been drinking from to the sink. "I will always be your friend, and Bobby's told you you'll always have a home here."

"It's not enough," Ben said miserably. He wanted very badly to be close to another person.  
"I'm sorry," Adam looked it. "I am. But anything else would be – irresponsible of me."

"Then let's hunt," Ben said after a moment. He had to move, to do something quickly. His muscles were eager and well-rested after confinement. If nothing else, he could have this.

"Yes," Adam grinned, and good humour sparked in his eyes as he indicated the paper. "Get your stuff. There's something bigger than pike in Lake Hendricks."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

There was a campground on Lake Hendricks, but they didn't use it. Tourism was way down, due both to the season and the spate of recent deaths at the lake, but a handful of committed fishing enthusiasts had still braved the conditions.

"Too risky," Adam shook his head. "A lot of these people bring dogs. The last thing we need is some terrier to come nosing round the tent looking for hotdogs and carry off a shotgun."

"What about questioning?" Ben asked.

"We'll come back in the morning."  
They set up camp in a fenced field right on the lake. A signpost just out front declared _'LAKE DREAM REAL ESTATE. PRIVATE LOT FOR SALE'_, with a telephone number printed below the logo. A less professional sign, affixed to the front gate, read _'NO TRESPASSING'_. Ben couldn't help but smile a little at the ineffectiveness of that.  
Bobby had been less than sanguine regarding this second attempt. He wouldn't come out and say that Ben was a useless hunter, but deflected it into grumblings about how two men on a goose chase was a waste of man power, and that Ben would be better off staying with him and learning something useful. At the last minute he'd admonished them,

"Y'all come back in one piece, y'hear," before shoving a box of blueberry muffins on top of their packed supplies. Baking, as it turned out, was another one of his unlikely interests. "Made too damn many. Tara's sniffing around them now, and she's gettin' too damn fat." Tara was Bobby's elderly Rottweiler cross, a fearsome-looking animal with a fierce bark when alarmed, but generally very placid and even-tempered. Her habit was to lean her solid bulk against a person's leg and butt them with her forehead in an almost cat-like show of affection.

"Bobby likes you a lot," Adam had told Ben in the car.

"You think?"

"I know. I know Bobby."

"Oh. Sometimes it seems like he thinks I'm stupid. I know I'm not exactly his fastest student."

"Well no – his fastest student was Sam, who was something of a genius. But you aren't stupid. Far from it. And Bobby doesn't think so."  
Once the tent was set up, and no irate property owner had immediately materialized, Adam set the torches and laid a bunch of newspaper clippings out on a thin windbreaker. He pinned them with a beer can against the evening breeze. The clippings dated back to the nineteenth century:

_A TRUE ACCOUNT of an HORRIBLE MONSTER, seen off the coast of LAKE CHAMPLAIN_

_A TRUE and VERIFIED SIGHTING of the BEAST OF LAKE ERIE_

_A most hideous KRAKEN in RAINY LAKE? _

And up to the snappier titles of recent decades:

_LOCAL WOMAN SPOTS 'CHAMP' OF CHAMPLAIN_

_IS CHESSIE REAL? VIDEO EVIDENCE! _

"I think some of these later ones are plesiosaurs," Adam said: "Generally keep to themselves, pretty quiet and have more sense than to get involved with humans. And if a couple get eaten by natural predators," -he indicated a clipping from the forties, 'COUPLE LOST ON LAKE MANITOBA' – "Well, that's not really our business. This, however, might be." He handed Ben last week's copy of the local newspaper.

_BOY, 12, VANISHES AT LAKE HENDRICKS_

Witnesses report 'splashing of tentacles'.

"Two more since then," Adam went on. "I'm thinking Kraken."

"Isn't it kind of arbitrary though," it occurred to Ben suddenly, "That we go after Kraken because they're monsters – but leave human-eating dinosaurs alone?"

"I've thought of it myself." The torchlight flickered over Adam's face as he frowned in concentration. They hadn't risked a fire, and it was cold. "There are differences. For one thing Kraken are sentient, and they hunt out of bloodlust, not just because they're hungry. But ultimately," he shrugged, "Hunting's a messy business, and you got to draw the line somewhere. Otherwise what –we go after murderers and rapists? That's not being a hunter, that's being a vigilante."

"You've considered this," Ben said. He wondered if Dean had. If he'd felt guilt over anything he'd killed before.

"One of my many flaws. Now tonight, we reconnaissance. You want to eat first?"

"Nah, after, " Ben said. He would never admit it, but sometimes he got kind of a nervous stomach. Adam checked the safety on his gun and holstered it, then slid a long thin blade into the holder at his belt.

"How do you kill a kraken?" he quizzed Ben.

"Silver bullet between the eyes, or enough salt to shrivel the body up."

"Right. Not that we're gonna get close enough for the second way." They finished arming and secured the lock on their box of provisions. Ben felt adrenalin rising. This time, he wouldn't mess up, he determined. He would be an asset. He would show Adam he was an adult, and ready. _'Ready for what?' _his brain asked him. He liked Adam. Yeah, liked him like that. Perhaps he had something to prove. _'Don't think about that now,' _he told himself. _'Just do good. And then – we'll see what happens." _They headed north, back to the campsite and then beyond it, to the long stretch of shore where the victims had been vanishing. It was sparse here – rocky, with little grass, and some dirty scrub sand further down by the water. The wind was biting – but the stars were out, and Ben blew hot air into the collar of his jacket, enjoying the way the heat curled back on his face. Adam was a lithe shadow in front of him, moving soundlessly over the terrain.

The smell hit them before the sight.

"Gross!" Ben couldn't help exclaiming.

"See, there's your unnatural," Adam turned one of the dead fish over with the toe of his boot. "No plesiosaur in the  
water would cause this." The shoreline was littered with fish carcasses in various states of decay. "Haven't seen this mentioned in the local news – must have just happened yesterday."

"It could be some kind of pollution," Ben ventured.

"Could be. But combined with the disappearances, somehow I doubt it."

"You think this is funny?"

They both spun around. An elderly woman, stooped and grim-looking, propped her cane against a rock behind them. She was bundled up in a thick, furred anorak of dark indeterminate colour. The rumble and wash of the lake waves must have masked the sound of her approach.

"God damn kids," the wind whipped the old woman's hair in tatters against her skull. "You think this is some kind of  
adventure game?"

"No Ma'am," said Adam innocently. "We were just saying, what a shame it is all the fish have washed up. Some kind of pollution, must be."

"That ain't no pollution, boy," the old woman growled. "That's the Kraken."

"What's a Kraken?" Adam said, which was just as well, because Ben had been just about to jump in with, 'You know about that?', but obviously they were going to play innocent.

"I ain't lived here for forty eight years without larnin' a thing or two." The woman gestured abruptly behind her, implying that she lived beyond the thick line of evergreens in shore. "Kraken's the lake beast. Older than I am, and that's old. It's lived here time out of mind, and it ain't happy with all these – developments." She glanced sneeringly in the direction of the camping ground. "They're putting up a hotel. Soon there'll be tourists year round. Kids playing in its water. Shrieking and scaring the fish. It used to eat fish. Now its moving up in the ways of things," she chuckled.

"Really?" Ben did his best to sound innocently interested. "We'd love to learn more about it. I mean, we're sort of – marine biology students…."

"Biology!" the old woman shrieked with laughter. "This ain't no biology. It's old magic. Now get out of here. Off my land. This ain't no place to be hanging around, not when the Kraken is hungry."

"Yes Ma'am," said Adam politely. "We're very sorry to have bothered you. We didn't realize this was private property."

"Biology," she chuckled again. "Go back to college, boy."

Adam and Ben exchanged glances. The old woman watched them steadily, all the way down the shoreline.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Ben didn't sleep much – for one thing, it was friggin cold, even bundled in thermal everything inside his sleeping bag. Before lights out, they'd given in and lit up the smallest of campfires in front of the tent, absorbing its heat as best they could and trying to warm the atmosphere. Ben had set the fire. He'd learned the method from when Jimmy Harris was a Scout. He had to be a Scout because his parents were pretty Churchy, but all he'd used his Scouting skills for was setting fire to the woodshed.

The other reason Ben couldn't sleep was Adam himself, wrapped up in his own sleeping bag a few feet away. Apparently  
Adam had dropped off without any trouble, and Ben watched the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath the blankets. There was something incredibly intimate about watching someone asleep (not to mention creepy, his conscience informed him, but it was kind of hard _not_ to when you were sharing a tent). You ordinarily thought of people in terms of what they were like – whether they were nice or funny or a dick or stupid or whatever – and in terms of what they looked like from outside. But when someone was asleep and breathing next to you, it had to think about how they lived in their body too, how their mind could tune out and go to sleep and their heart kept right on beating. It made them _real_.

He had never watched Dean sleep.

In the morning, they went to the campsite and set up their fishing gear. Actually Bobby's fishing gear, which they'd borrowed as the obvious cover story.

"I don't suppose your Scout friend told you how to fish?" Adam asked.

"No, " said Ben. He wondered if Adam had been a Scout, but then he remembered Jimmy telling him that they didn't let fags into Scouts. The water was calm, flat, grey, indifferently reflecting the sky. Ben huddled a little deeper into his jacket. If anything more exciting than lake weed lived down there, it wasn't making it obvious.

After about thirty minutes, a middle-aged couple with a teenage girl and a retriever came and set up along the shore, about twenty meters from them – fishing etiquette, Ben presumed, they weren't about to horn in on their water space.

"Do we just…go and talk to him? Would that be weird?"

"Or we make him talk to us." Adam produced something wrapped in tin foil from the pocket of his jacket. It was meat, and it smelled strong:

"Kidney. Gross, I know." He dropped the meat into the grass a few feet from them. The dog, whose ears and nose had both perked up the second it was unwrapped, came nosing over hurriedly and started to gobble the prize. The man called to it, but the pungent meat was too much for the dog to resist. Adam discreetly dropped a second piece – in the tackle box this time. The dog immediately stuck its muzzle in the box and started to eat.

"_Rusty!_" The woman and the daughter were heading over: "I'm so sorry," said the woman, "He never does that. Bad dog, get out of there!"

"Oh it's alright," Adam said cheerfully."We're about done for the morning anyway – fish aren't biting for us."

"Oh my God," the girl covered her face with her hands as her mother pulled the dog off by his collar. "Because fishing with Mom and Pop isn't humiliating enough."

"It was nothing," Ben put in, thinking it was about time he said something. "He's really cute."

"And you know, he's so well-behaved most of the time! We've been bringing him fishing for years. Melissa, stop that." The woman admonished her daughter, who was pretending to shoot herself in the face.

"Are you regulars here?" Adam asked politely.

"Every fall and winter," the man had secured the fishing rod and came over to join them. "Beats the crowds, you know. I really am sorry about the bait. We can pay for it.'

"It's no trouble. We're not exactly professionals, just here for the practice really, " Ben did his best to look  
innocuous.

"Though it seems like we picked a bad time to join the Lake Hendricks crowd," Adam picked up the thread: "It's tragic," he shook his head.

"Oh the kids, yes I know, isn't it awful," the woman said, petting the dog's head with one hand and keeping the other on his collar. Rusty was slobbering happily and staring at Adam in open admiration.

"Shouldn't have been messing around in the water if they couldn't swim," said the man.

"They could swim, dad!" Melissa objected. "They were tempting it!"

"You think it's true? About the…?" Adam made his eyes wide, waiting to see if they'd take the bait. 'Who said we couldn't fish,' Ben thought with satisfaction.

"Well no," said the woman hurriedly. "I mean it's just rumours. There's an old lady who lives up the shoreline," she gestured vaguely, "Comes about scaring the kids. Telling them monster stories. She's a little…you know." She gestured vaguely towards her head. "Shame, really. Encourages them to go down to the water and play these…dangerous games."

"What games?" asked Ben, a little too fast.

"Oh – you know. Horror story stuff." The man shrugged it off.

"Old May says the blood of a virgin will draw out the Kraken," Melissa said matter-of-factly. "So the kids like, dare each other, you know? A whole bunch go down to the water together and everyone has to cut their fingers and bleed in the lake to see if-"

"Melissa!" her mother reprimanded.

"That's what they were doing, Mom! And it worked! It happened! They drew it out!"

"That's enough, young lady. Take Rusty back to the tent. Sorry boys. Hope the rest of your trip goes better."

The family beat a hasty retreat as Adam and Ben packed up.

"So I guess that means me," Ben said before Adam could. "Resident virgin, and everything."

"You don't have to," Adam said. "There must be another way."

"No, I'll do it," Ben shrugged. 'Goddamn virginity might as well come in handy for something.'

"If you're sure," the corner of Adam's mouth quirked, as though he'd heard the thought.

"I am. Tonight." And he was. He could do this. One cut of his finger, and he could save, who knew? Hundreds of lives. Huh. 'And Adam will see I can handle it.' In his mind's eye, he watched himself shooting the Kraken down, silver bullet between the eyes, water rising, exploding back as the thing collapsed –

And Dean would never see it.

Well. Adam would.'Better a live dog than a dead lion': the saying came back to him suddenly. Something his grandma had said. And then he felt guilty because Adam was no dog – Adam was a good person. And he was – kind of – hot, with his sad eyes and his mouth which Ben knew would feel soft and dry and firm beneath his own lips. He would never love anybody the way he had loved Dean, the kind of love that made you ridiculous, made you want to die for someone, scream their name from the top of buildings, carve their name across your heart. But when he imagined a future without Adam in it, now – versus one when they were together – he thought maybe there was another kind of love: quieter, calmer, more – peaceful. More ordinary than annihilating.

If only he could make Adam trust that he knew now what he was doing.

"Tonight it is then," Adam said with a smile, and Ben had to remind himself he was talking about the Kraken.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Ben was a chicken about a lot of things, but he was fine with blood. There were a few kids in his old class who cut their arms on purpose: he had tried it once, thinking there must be something in it if everybody was doing it, but it basically just hurt a bit and got blood drips on his carpet. The kids used to say it released your anxiety or some shit, but after that he pretty sure they were just doing it for the image.

Hard to believe he would find himself like this: up to his calves in lake-water, at full dark, holding his left arm out in front of him and holding a hilted knife in his right. Some of the fishers had been out late that night – some kind of campfire get together – and he and Adam had to wait until the early hours for the last to pack up and go home.

"I feel like a Goth wannabe," he complained to Adam.

"You want me to make the cut?" Adam asked mildly.

"Nah. Just – don't miss the shot, okay?"

"The Kraken's head is a pretty damn big target."

"Yeah. Okay. Sorry." Ben drew the knife once across his left forearm, below his rolled-up sleeve. Adam had sharpened it carefully – red blood welled brightly a second before he felt the sting. "Come and get it," he muttered, squeezed his fist, and a few large drops spattered into the water in time with his pulse. Red dissolved and swirled quickly into the inky dark lake. Hurriedly Ben stepped back, and they retreated up the shoreline.

"Well," said Adam after a moment: "This is anti-climactic." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a deep ripple rose and swelled in the water.

"Shit." Ben couldn't help the nervous exclamation – the ripples were coming faster and harder now, up and up to the shoreline, and a dark shape was rising up, rearing to loom over them –

- the Kraken, massive and tentacled, its small eyes gleaming with a feral intelligence. As it approached, a wound seemed to open and gape in its face, revealing itself as a horrible mouth, filled with two lines of carnivorous teeth. Adam's gunshot cracked loud over the sound of the waves, and the Kraken's huge head rocked back with the force of the bullet. It entered squarely between the eyes, splitting the wet flesh, thudding deeply into the muscle and bone. The Kraken lurched backwards, then forwards again-

- and kept coming.

"What?" Adam gasped.

"Shoot it again!" Ben shouted. Adam did – to similar effect. The beast moving towards them was now missing a long strip from its upper cortex.

"That's it!" Adam shouted. "I'm out of silver bullets."  
Ben fired his own gun. And again, and again.

"Ben, _run!_" Adam was shouting. But it wasn't supposed to be like this. Ben didn't want to fail. He had failed with the shapeshifter (failed his family, failed his mother and Dean), and he needed to kill this now, needed to know he could still have effect in the world. The hard force of anger and grief seemed to rise up, from his guts through his arm to the gun. Needed Adam to see he could –

"What are you _doing?_" Adam had him by the arm. But something else had him by the right leg, for the Kraken was now upon them. Its cold, muscular tentacle, like iron under wet rubber, wrapped around his right calf and pulled hard enough to yank his feet out from under him. He landed on his back, hard, a jag of pain going up his leg as though it was torn from its hip socket. A second tentacle slid up his side, reaching for his face, his neck, to strangle him –

- And then Adam was _right there_ and hurling a whole bag of rock salt directly into the Kraken's face. Salt dripped and sprayed onto Ben. It poured into the Kraken's open mouth, packed into its open wounds, and the beast screamed and thrashed spasmodically, one of its tentacles catching Adam solidly in the stomach. The agonized monster didn't have the co-ordination to grab him, but the impact threw him several feet where he landed hard on the rocky ground. The Kraken shriveled into itself and retreated, scurrying frantically back to the water, desperate to wash the salt from its mouth and wounds.

Ben lay there and stared at the stars for a moment. Judging by the pain lancing all the way up and down it, his leg was still attached.

"Adam?" he called when he had the breath.

"What. The Hell." Adam sounded pained.

"I'm sorry." It was all he could think to say. The stars twinkled brightly, beautifully. Ben felt tears prick at his eyes.

"No," Adam got unsteadily to his feet. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I shouldn't have brought you. Maybe I shouldn't have brought you to Bobby's. But…I didn't know what to do."

It was imperative then, that he be looking at Adam's face. With effort Ben sat up. Adam was offering his hands to help him. Ben took them and pulled himself up, taking most of his weight on his left leg.

"It's way too soon." Adam's sympathetic eyes held his own.

"No!" Ben was panicked. Was Adam going to get rid of him? He'd been nothing but a liability so far….with a sudden, desperate need to show Adam what he was feeling, Ben grabbed his face and kissed him again. Harder this time.

And Adam's lips opened slightly.

Probably it was surprise, but the touch of their tongue tips sent an electric jolt all the way down Ben's body.

"You have really got to stop doing that," Adam said when he broke the kiss. His pupils were dilated and his pale cheeks flushed lightly. "You only get so many trauma passes. After that it's just sexual harassment."

"_Don't send me back,_" Ben said fiercely. Then: "Please. I want to finish this."

"Finishing it is the question right now. That is _not_ a regular Kraken. Let's go back to the tent. We've got to sleep, and think about this."

"Sleep?" Ben was agitated. "With – that out there?"

"Unlike our intrepid forebearers, I am not a superhero." Adam actually yawned. Probably the adrenalin comedown. "It is 2.30 a.m., and I didn't inherit the Winchester talent for solving mysteries without at least a certain amount of sleep."

"I'm sorry," Ben said. "I shouldn't have – I don't know…."

"We'll talk about it in the morning," Adam told him, a little sharper. "But – you have to follow my lead on this. I brought you into this, for better or worse, and I can't be responsible for…"

"If I die it's my own fault," Ben blurted.

Adam held his gaze and said very calmly, "You're not going to die."

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: I did the Latin in this chapter myself. Corrections and mockery welcome._

It was wrong, of course – positively unethical. You didn't just _kiss_ people after they'd told you not to. If Adam was a girl he'd never have dreamed of it, and what kind of fucked-up double standard was _that_? Perhaps his subconscious brain was making allowances for the fact that, if it came to it, Adam could kick his ass – though whether Adam _would_ kick his ass was another question.

Right now Adam was sleeping, to all appearances quite soundly, as though he could simply turn off the fact that they were camping by a lake with a silver-resistant Kraken in it. A silver-resistant Kraken with a taste for Ben's blood. Perfect. He squinted at the narrow cut on his forearm, which he had taped with a piece of adhesive soaked in antiseptic:

"It's tiny," he'd objected when Adam instructed him: "It's not even bleeding anymore." The persistent deep ache in his leg and hip had completely drowned out its sting.

"Never ignore broken skin when you're camping out," Adam said. "If you leave it and sleep on the ground, I guarantee it will be infected by the morning." He didn't say 'when you're hunting', so Ben assumed that he was sticking to his resolve that this would be Ben's last trip. Then he made Ben change out of his Kraken-damp clothes, and into his spare pair of jeans and sweatshirt, whilst Adam discreetly turned his back and kept his gaze on the ground. The shiver that ran up Ben's back as he stepped out of his jeans was more than cold, though his skin prickled with goosebumps. Then, Adam had reloaded his gun with the last of his silver bullets, and keeping his back to Ben, gone to sleep.

Now Ben felt bitter and empty, lying bundled in his sleeping bag, absorbing the discomfort of the cold. He felt more like Adam's charge and less like a hunting partner than ever. Maybe he _should_ quit. But the anguish that rose in his stomach at that thought was like the return of grief. What would he do? He had nothing.

Okay. He could figure this out. He had been studying for weeks with Bobby. What could cause a Kraken to resist silver? Possibility number one: possession. The body could be dead, but still animated by a demon. But why would a demon choose the form of a monster? That would only get it hunted. It could do much more damage by appropriating the form of a human. Number two: adaptation. Things changed, sometimes, over the centuries. Witness the shapeshifter, the wendigo, and other things that were formerly human. If the Kraken had adapted to become resistant to silver, they were screwed. Getting close enough for long enough to actually try to kill it with salt would be positively suicidal.

_Splish._.

Ben felt his eyes widen slightly. Just a particularly loud wave, he assured himself. The sound had rung clear from the endless slop-slop of the lake on the lot bank. A fish, probably. A large fish.

_SLAP._.

What the hell kind of fish was _that?_

"Adam!" he whispered frantically, and Adam was wide awake even as Ben reached out to shake his shoulder.

"Shit," Adam said, hearing the _SLAP-SLIDE_ louder, and then suddenly the air was think with the stench of blood, rot, and fish.

"GUN!" Adam yelled, although Ben was already grabbing his, for all the good it would do with its ordinary bullets – Adam ducked out of the tent and Ben was right behind him, Adam didn't even tell him to stay back, for the tent would be no protection. The Kraken reared on the bank, dragging the last of its tentacles out of the water – most of its head was a bloody ruin, eyes bulging from shattered sockets, and the remaining skin shriveled back to the skull after Adam's attack with the salt.

"_Accio tu belau, debella meus hostilis. Exhibe virtus-"_

The voice was familiar, yet changed. Ben and Adam spun around almost simultaneously, though Adam was careful to keep one eye still on the Kraken. The old woman from the beach stood in the field behind them, her long scraggled hair fluttering in the breeze.

"Humans!" Adam groaned. "Man, whenever you get something off the charts, it's always humans."

"Boys, boys, what have you done to my pretty thing?" The woman laughed. "I told you to stay away. I've had to come all the way down to the lake to summon it. Never mind. Your flesh ought to feed it strength again."

"She's a witch," Ben said. Adam gave him a look like _'no shit, Sherlock'_. It had been such a double bluff. Old creepy woman hangs scaring the kids – most hunters would overlook it as being too obvious. Hell, Ben had been kind of hoping she would _help_ them.

"Too young to understand," the woman shook her head. "This is my lake. Those are my trees. I have lived here forever. They must not change it."

"You need to stop killing people," Adam said.

"When they cease to slaughter the forest, I will stop. When they cease to plough up the rocks and sand." She turned back to the beast: "Ruo suum intentio-"

"I don't want to shoot you," Adam told her, "But I will."

"Will you," said the witch, and Adam yelped suddenly and dropped the gun – the metal glowed red hot.

"_Discedo, lamia_," said Adam quickly. _"In nomine patris, filius et spiritus sanctum ego tu, vestri venificium deficio"_. The witch snarled and started forward, but the charm was causing her to falter. She hissed, "nequeo spiro," and Adam choked, gasping fish-like for air. To Ben's horror, he fell to his knees. His normally pale face started to redden. But as the witch focused her energy on choking him, the Kraken swayed, and Ben realized it was unprotected. He grabbed the gun, the metal still hot enough to burn his palms but no longer glowing fire. He fired three silver bullets directly into the Kraken's skull. The thing screamed once, unearthly, and collapsed. Then Ben turned the gun on the witch.

"Let him go," he said, some innate ethic forcing a last chance even as Adam was suffocating in front of him.  
But the witch snarled and didn't relent, so Ben shot her in the heart.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

If Ben had been expecting that the next thing they did was jump into bed together, he was disappointed. For one thing, they were both spectacularly bruised, and more inclined to lie around and take hot showers for the next couple of days than engage in passionate sex. For another, whilst Adam had been suitably convinced that Ben was old enough and together enough to come on hunts now, he had some major mental block about the fact that Ben was not quite eighteen, and given that South Dakota had no legislation concerning homosexual age of consent, he was taking it as the highest as a guard against any sense of coercion.

Ben Googled the respective ages of consent in his and Adam's states of origin: in Indiana, it was 16 for any kind of sex, and in Minnesota, homosexual relations were illegal. Ben blinked. He supposed he had, known, vaguely, that there were certain places even now where those sorts of laws existed…but he'd kind of assumed they were all on the Bible Belt. Like, just for instance, Kansas.

"What do you think about gay people, Bobby?" he asked as they washed dishes. Well, Ben washed. Bobby dried, sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, because his leg made it uncomfortable for him to stand for long periods. The pile of dishes stacked on the table grew steadily – over the years, the old ex-hunter had acquired a surprising amount of mis-matched crockery.

"Gay people in general, or Adam?" Bobby looked at him shrewdly from the corner of his eye._ 'Damn, he's good'._

"Gay people in general," Ben lied.

"Ain't none of my business," Bobby said. "Conditions in this house are same for boys, girls, and whoever the hell else you boys can find to bring home: whatever goes on under this roof is safe, consensual, and done in such time and/or manner that I don't know about it." Such was his last word on this subject.

In any case, Adam was probably right – Ben was far from healthy. He still had nightmares, still got struck out of the blue with the overwhelming force of what he had lost. He'd be studying with Bobby, or training, or messing around with Tara in the yard, and just suddenly, he'd remember the sound that his Mom's key made when she slid it into the lock – a particular click slide he could always tell was hers, produced by the particular movement of her wrist. Or the lingering scent of Dean's aftershave, something clean and simple, and the fucked-up grief/arousal of that absolutely clear memory felt like being poleaxed. He cried like a heartbroken girl on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, when Bobby was baking something involving cinnamon and it _smelled_ like Christmas but oh God, how could it ever be anything like Christmas again?

The first time, everybody left him alone, but the second, Adam knocked on his door quietly. Ben said, 'come in,' in a stupid wavery voice, so Adam came and sat next to him on the bed with his arm around Ben's shoulders. Neither of them said anything for while, until Ben was done with his sniveling. Adam turned his head and kissed him high on the right cheek. It was supposed to be comfort, probably. Or affection. His lips were hot and the Christmas spice in whatever he'd just been eating made Ben's skin tingle pink.

"Merry Christmas," said Ben bitterly, then felt rotten. "Sorry."

"It's alright. I'm not big on Christmas myself."

"My Mom loved it," Ben found himself revealing. "Dean, too. I think it was the time of year he was happiest with us. Mom would dress the house up, do the whole thing. Dean would get this freakin huge tree, a real tree, and Mom used to complain about the pine needles but really she loved it. Most of the year she was all about healthy food – she was a yoga teacher – but for Christmas she would bake all these cookies, and hang these lame little red and white candy canes all around the house. I thought I was too old for all that shit. I used to give them so much crap about it…" How he wished, if he could take back one thing, he hadn't given them that crap.

"Sounds like you have a lot of happy memories."

"Yeah, happy. Except for…" he slanted his eyes sideways at Adam.  
"Yeah. Of course."

"I don't understand why they had to die!" Ben exploded suddenly. "Mom, or Sam and Dean. I mean, I didn't know Sam, but he pretty much _saved the world_, and anyway you loved him so he must have been like…freakin amazing. And Mom and Dean died to save _me,_ a chicken screwup loser, I never even found the demon-"

Adam's mouth stopped his torrent of words. He kissed forcefully, his tongue parting Ben's lips, and once he realized what was happening Ben received it eagerly. Heat from their joined mouths travelled all the way down his body, the tang of spice, their teeth clicked together clumsily but Ben hardly noticed. Adam brought his hands up and held the sides of Ben's face firmly, and he held his gaze as he pulled away:

"You. Are. Not. A. Loser. And chicken? I don't think so. You totally saved my life on that last hunt, Ben. I'm proud to have you as a partner." And his eyes affirmed that he meant it both ways. For absolutely no reason he could understand, Ben told him:

"Gay sex is illegal in Minnesota."

Adam smiled. It was the ironic humor of someone who's spent their whole life living outside of acceptable.

"It's a fucked-up world we live in, Ben. War makes heroes, love makes jail time. And the real heroes die unacknowledged."

And in the morning, with snow lying silently over the world outside, Ben still loved Dean, and Dean was still dead, and he still missed his mother and hated the demon who'd ended his childhood in blood. But he lay entangled in the warmth of Adam's sleep-heavy body, stiff and soothed with endorphins from the previous hours, and watched the dawn light play silently over Adam's features.

And it was enough.

The End.


End file.
